Checkmate
by VoxNexus
Summary: A string of murders shakes London to its political core and Sherlock Holmes is public enemy number one. Suspected of murdering Moriarty's top contacts and the mastermind, criminal consultant himself, he's taken in for questioning by the man who once worked for him: John Watson.
1. Prologue

Sherlock's hand shot out from between the prison bars and grabbed hold of the front of John's throat. He pulled the detective closer, pressing John's back up against the steel bars and leaning his face in so that he was breathing down the former soldier's neck.

"They can't keep me here forever," Sherlock said, in that quick, curt vocal cadence of his.

John felt his Adam's apple bob and nudge Sherlock's palm as he swallowed before he spoke.

"Who else could have killed Moriarty? Who else but you," John asked.

He _felt _Sherlock's breath beat against the skin of his neck as the alleged murderer let out a short-lived laugh.

"Appealing to my ego Watson?" Sherlock nearly hissed, John imagined the man gritting his teeth as he said this. He did know however, that he struck something in Sherlock from the way his chokehold tightened, threatening to steal John's ability to breathe.

"You're better off appealing to my humanity," Sherlock suggested, a hint of something resembling amusement cutting into his tone.

They both knew what Sherlock was implying. That there was no hope of John getting a confession. None whatsoever. The probability of Sherlock confessing was as likely as him being able to feel remorse.

Sherlock slowly lifted his hand from John's neck and immediately, he moved to put himself at a safe distance from the now smirking sociopath. Sherlock had taken a step back and stood with his arms crossed over his chest before walking up to his cell bars to peer between them. They looked at each other for a testing second before John walked out of holding area. Leaving Sherlock to rest his head against the bars, looking downward at his feet.

After a moment of silence, the man chuckled softly to himself before whispering into the emptiness around him.

_"Checkmate Watson."_


	2. Genesis

_**Genesis**_

* * *

John pulled his hooded jacket closer to his body, the thickness of his gloves making his grip clumsy and off-putting. He walked hurriedly to the scene of the crime. The half a dozen police cruisers parked around the scene did not deter curious onlookers or opportunistic reporters. Already, local television stations were gearing up to do a live report while photojournalists took snapshots of the chaos. Forensics were already beginning to sweep the scene for any residual, genetic or material evidence that might help build the profile for the murderer and help identify the victim.

The body had been dumped on the side of the road; witness accounts states that it had been pushed off of the roof one of the town's older condominiums. The person, obviously female, had their entire face and most of their brain matter blasted out with what could only be a high-powered, firearm. Most likely a shotgun. Her body had been stripped down and it was made apparent that she'd been completely shaven; if it wasn't for her mature curves, she'd appeared almost infantile.

John flashed his identification card and badge to one of the officers guarding the scene, who stepped aside to allow him in. He slipped under the yellow, strip of tape creating a perimeter around the scene and was approached by CSI personnel.

"We have at least two residents saying they'll go on record. Reporting on seeing one of their neighbors stepping out the elevator and making their way to the stairwell and another stating they shared an elevator with what sounds to be the same woman."

John nodded, acknowledging what he'd heard, "Any other leads?"

They shrugged, "We suspect that the woman was living in flat 919. If the vic. is the same woman in the elevator and if the descriptions of our elevator, mystery-woman matches those of whoever lived in that apartment. We may be able to figure out who she is before sundown."

John patted the personnel on their shoulder, "That'll be good for us then and for the family of this woman." He walked passed them and made his way up to the naked, still body. Leaning over her were forensic scientists picking, prodding and prying her body for any blood, hair or skin samples. One of them glanced up at John and recognized him.

"Detective Watson!"

"Andrew," John said, sounding a tad bit bored. He tried not to shiver in his clothing but could barely restrain his reaction.

"Found anything?" John inquired, partly trying to distract himself from the winter chill.

Andrew shook his head, looking slightly annoyed, "Nothing that can give us any tangible clues as to the person responsible for this. We were able to get plenty of blood samples from the vic. As well as fingerprints."

"Anything you can find is going to be helpful," John assured, sinking his hands into his jacket pockets.

He glanced around the scene before looking up at the building, imagining the sight of a stripped, mortally wounded, corpse being pulled to the earth and landing smack-down onto the streets of London.

He was snapped out of imaginative thoughts when his cell phone rang and vibrated against his thigh from inside his pocket. He snatched it up and glanced at the bolded ID before bringing it up to his ear.

"Detective," – it was Sergeant Sally Donovan -, "I think you'll want to see this."

* * *

At a glance, the room appeared undisturbed. Not an inch of it indicated any foil play, nothing of any sort suggested even the slightest struggle. No, the room of where the woman supposed lived was tidy and perfectly put together. Sergeant Donovan, with her head of voluminous, light brown curls, was recognizable all the way on the opposite end of the room. If not for her hair, then for the harsh pitch of her voice and commanding body language, her hands clasping her hips and deep, blue pantsuit standing out amidst the crowd of uniforms.

"Donovan," John called out casually as he moved towards her.

She turned around to greet him and gave a quick, respectable shake of his hand.

"Watson," she replied before gesturing to the living space.

"Nothing suspect here, unless well -," she sighed and let her hand fall to her side, causing it to slap against her thigh, "The dead dog," she finally said.

If John could raise his eyebrow he would have as he turned in the direction Donovan had been holding out her hand, her mannerisms telling.

On the ground beside one of the couches was a white cloth covering a small, lump of what could only be the body of an animal.

"Any evidence hinting at it being killed?" He inquired, curious.

Donovan shook her head, causing her curls to bounce, "It's actually already begun decomposing," she informed before reaching into one of her pockets to fetch her phone.

"Hold on a moment," she insisted, holding up a finger as if to silence any objections Watson had.

She exchanged a few short sentences with whoever was on the other end and then glimpsed over at Watson while covering the speaker with one of her gloved hands.

"It's Lestrade," she said before turning her attention back to the phone.

John looked around the room and caught himself taking in his reflection. Ever since The Reichenbach Fall he seemed to have aged by at least five years. The entirety was an excruciating stressor and he went through months trudging through exhaustion, depression and what felt like a curse of eternal mourning. Sherlock's death was a massive, emotional blow that ate away at him for so long that at one point he could barely muster up the strength to get out of bed. If it wasn't for Ms. Hudson's pestering and kind bickering he may not have been able to compose himself as fast as he did.

Finally, after a nod or two and a few, "I understand," from Sergeant Donovan, she hung up and gave John an unusual look.

"Trouble in Paradise?" John asked, starting to feel overheated in his heavily insulted jacket and wool layers.

"Lestrade has scheduled a meeting with MIT and anyone else with Met involved with the past few murder cases."

* * *

Lestrade stood with a permanent look of displeasure on his face while standing in front of the pack of nervous Met staff members sitting stiffly before him.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the Scotland Yard," he cleared his throat before proceeding, "We have a situation on our hands."

Everyone sat deathly quiet, waiting for him to continue on with some elaboration.

"It seems we may be dealing with a serial killer."

No one said a word, it seemed that most sat with subdued breath, many eyed Lestrade expectantly, none showed any surprise. It wasn't the first time London had dealt with a serial killer and this one definitely wasn't the most abhorrent. After all, London had birthed the beast of all murderers during the 19th century.

Someone raised their voice in the back of the room.

"Inspector, what makes you think we're dealing with a serial killer?"

Lestrade offered a small smile, "Some of you are aware that I've involved personnel who specialize in profiling individuals involved in cases of this nature. Criminologists Raspin and his teams expertise is of great value to us and although strangers to most of you, I'm sure will earn your cooperation."

John could have swore he heard a few unapologetic scoffs pass around the room. Lestrade didn't seem to hear them and introduced Raspin and his well-dressed colleagues: a woman and two men.

"Thank you Inspector," Raspin said while exuding an air of honest humility.

"As Inspector Lestrade states earlier, my team and I will be here to offer theories as to who has brought about so much death and destruction to London at this time. We are here only as assists, we are not taking your jobs from you. We trust that you will come to trust us and see us as your equals. Know that we already do," he looked over at his co-workers and they stepped up closer to wear he stood.

"I'm profiler Beckons and this is, Dr. Tashkin and Dr. Irvin," said a woman with shoulder-length brown hair and an obviously American accent. The man flanking her left side seemed more foreign than she did while Irvin spoke with the accent and quip of a man bred in Britain. Beckons raised their chin and with relaxed, low yet sturdy shoulders faced the investigators and lab technicians put together to tend to the case. As she announced the teams analysis, she clasped her small yet deft hands behind her back and rocked back slightly on her heels.

"So far, we've come to believe that the unsub has either lived in London for most of their life or is native to England. Their ability to maneuver quickly and discreetly from crime scenes demonstrates an extensive knowledge of the capital, and causes us to speculate that the unsub is physically fit and able to carry themselves long distances, most likely by foot. There is no evidence indicating the use of buses, taxis, railways or trams as routes for escape. The unsub most likely lives within the city itself and based on the unfortunate lack of evidence left behind at the scene of their crimes, they may have an invasive, understanding of forensics, as well as pathology.

This person is comfortable showing themselves in the daytime and is confident enough to dump bodies mid-day, in an actively used, public setting, displaying the boldness of someone who blends in. They most likely fit the characteristics of the majority of the population and is almost positively Caucasian."

_So their English, has street smarts and are white. Like that doesn't cause the majority of London to be suspect, _John internally groaned.

Dr. Tashkin unconsciously tugged at his thin-striped tie before continuing where Beckons had left off.

"Lack of pre-mortem trauma to the killer's victims suggest direct physical force is not necessary to subdue them and they most likely carry a concealed weapon. The victims that you've been able to identify deviate largely in terms of physical characteristics and public life. As has been concluded in past murder cases involving similar MOs, race is not a determinant of victomology and as we've learnt today, neither is sex or gender."

Dr. Tashkin paused to share a stern glance at everyone to ensure they were following along. They were a few, blank, disinterested stares but for the most part, the information was registering well.

"In terms of _private life, _all identifiable victims did either interact with people who have criminal history. Whether or not they knew about the past trespasses of these individuals cannot be presently currently, except for in the cases of four of the murder victims who bought or sold on London's black market. We'll be further looking into those four vics. to build on victimology. Sir Irvin?"

_Sir? _John suppressed a presumptuous, unimpressed scoff. Was this Doctor of Criminology also one of unknown nobility? He sensed some of the staff around him had similar sarcastic reactions.

"Thank you Doctor Tashkin," he said as he looked into the faces of the people he was about to address.

Beckons had already begun handing out briefs summarizing the information they'd be sharing. Everyone passed it along amongst the rows and columns of chairs while absorbing the remainder of the profile Dr. Irvin was prepared to give.

"In your hands right now are profiles looking into the lives of the four people whose criminal activity we've been able to trace. Lucas Shire, Samual Fraer, Tyrell Lemieux and Sebastian Moran."

Not a breath could be heard.

Lestrade shook hands with the good doctor and gave a friendly handshake while whispering something brief and most likely casual in his ear. He looked to his hired hands, the group of men and women eager for orders and spoke to them with a sense of purpose and transparent conviction.

"This person is to be considered armed and highly dangerous. This case will be top priority for all of the Scotland Yard until further notice."

* * *

Out of all the victim profiles, two garnered most of John's interest and attention: Lucas Shire and Sebastian Moran.

Lucas Shire was a naval officer who had been deployed for OEF missions in the Horn of Africa to ward of Somali pirates along the coastline. He was issued onto a combined taskforce built on the efforts of countries such as Canada, Germany and Denmark.

Sebastian Moran was an army colonel deployed during the phase of _The War on Terror _known to most as Operation Iraqi Freedom. He fought mostly against the Fedayeen by commanding tanks in an armored infantry regiment known as the Black Watch. He'd fought in the Battle of Basra, taking Iraq's second largest city in just two weeks. The motto of The Black Watch? _Nemo Me Impune Lacessit._

_No one attacks me with impunity._

Wanting to move onto different, more violent pastures and never one to commit himself to refining one way to wage war, he temporarily moved to St. Athans, Wales and passed through Para Coy ITC training to join the Special Forces Support Group. There, he learned to specialize in weapons handling, communications equipment and specialist assault skills. It's there where his keen, vigilant eyes, sharp senses and masterful reflexes shone as a gift worth honing; specifically to pursue a position as a battalion sniper.

Having completed his training and having no inclinations to live on base, he moved to the Liverpool, Metropolitan district, on Victoria Street. He took up a job as a barber during the daytime, seen by the usual attendees as sociable and one to relish masculine camaraderie. Eventually, one of his costumers, a man named Willis Calingale introduced him to some of the members of his inner circle. A pose of affluent gamblers, one of Calingale's contacts was an army veteran of the Vietnam War and he needed a favor from Moran.

On February 15th 2006, Sebastian Moran received his first assassination job. Over a shot of scotch, cigar smoke and pillars of poker chips.

So, was it Sebastian Moran's criminal associates that connected him to the other victims? None of the other three had any affiliations with Calingale and not the weapons he dealt on the black market either. A concerning inconsistency in Moran's profile was his abrupt jump to lavish living. From renting out apartments above struggling stores and shops to being able to afford Sussex housing. Even in the wake of his death, not all his secrets spilled out and not all his hits were on record. No extremely, high profile hits were accounted for, most of the ones he'd been connected to in some way were drug dealers, corrupt elitist and from his criminal resume, it seemed Moran avoided politicians as if they had the plague. Either that, or he was so talented that he could fire a bullet into a guarded man's head without the slightest trace of evidence...

...like their current serial killer.

John shook his head as he flipped through the profile even more. Skimming through photographs of Moran and his band of brothers posing on tanks with tired yet triumphant smiles on their faces. In one picture, he was posing with a military grade, semi-automatic with ear protection gear hanging around his neck.

Looking through all these photos, John didn't sense his usual trauma, but a strange, beckoning nostalgia.

* * *

**[Flashback]**

A man of average height with large, dark brown eyes, immaculate in a Westwood suit, joins Moran for a game of black jack. The man looks strangely familiar and Sebastian finds himself experiencing a moment of déjà vu.

"Hello comrade," the man says with a smile that _felt_ immodest and would've made most feel unsettled. Sebastian's impulse was neutral, this man with his slightly mussed, black hair and flashing, expensive watch didn't faze him.

He didn't say anything as he slid the man his hand of cards.

They sat in silence as they eyeballed their numbers with clenched jaws and concentrated gazes. Finally, the well-dressed stranger looked up with a smile that, bordered on being a grin, on his face.

"I'll take another Hit," he said, sounding almost sweet. He picked up a card from the deck placed between them, centering the table.

Sebastian exhaled a cloud of smoke, "I think I'll Stay."

This stranger, with his pasty skin looking even pastier under the Casino lights, didn't seem all to satisfied.

"Another Hit and another-and-another-and-another...," he then shot Sebastian a winning, slightly manic, grin. "I'll take hits for life."

Sebastian suddenly dropped his hand of cards, causing them to spew out onto the table. He snuffed out his cigarette on an ashtray placed near the deck case and stood up. So did his opposing player.

"Leaving so soon?" he nearly cooed, "You were just about to win."

Sebastian shrugged on the brown, leather jacket slung over the back of his seat.

"Winning isn't everything," he assured the man.

_Probably one of Calingale's men, _he thought as he made his way over to one of the back exits.

The man followed him all the way up to one of the quieter, less used halls, lit with red lights built into the ceiling.

"But you always win. You have yet to lose and trust me, with me, you'd never lose."

Sebastian felt the pacing of his steps slow as he neared the emergency exit door.

"Really?" he asked, with his back still facing Mr. 'Westwood.'

"Trust me," he promised, sounding like how Moran would imagine a reptile to speak.

"_Trust me_, Sebastian Moran...Work for me."

Sebastian felt his hand land on the handle for the exit and it barely registered when he pushed the door open and walked outside, causing the alarm to go off.

Mr. 'Westwood' didn't follow.


End file.
